We Are The Underground!

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In Between Hangovers is seeking well crafted poems. 6 Max to inbetweenhangovers@yahoo.com No previously published and no simultaneous submissions. Include photo and SHORT bio. Expect a timely response. Work published on a rolling basis. -Tasha

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The Drug Widows by Paul Tristram

Its name is actually Fairfax Close.
It’s the last right, as you’re nearing
the bottom of the Council Estate,
but everyone refers to it as
‘The Drug Widows’
Besides the wailing, dirty children
out on the street,
at all times of the day and night…
there’s often adult screeching,
it’s painful to hear,
like anguish, resentment,
heartache and anger
all rolled up into one vocal misery.
It’s all ‘Skag’ and ‘Crack’, innit.
Men only go there for three things,
cheap/free, easy sex,
to sell drugs or buy drugs.
One of them’s just come out of prison,
after a couple of years,
so far, she’s injected three boyfriends
in the foot in the same bathroom…
everyone of them… Dead By Dawn.
Since we set up Camp
in the woods behind the playing fields,
me and Brittle’s been out tatting
with a local lad called Bobby…
he’s been banging a few of them for years.
Day before yesterday,
we pull up in the van to grab two cookers
and some copper piping outta a garden.
This little, snotty nosed kid
looks up from the pavement and says to him
“Hey Mister, are you my Daddy?”
and he answers him
just as honest as he can with a “Fuck knows”